


Sore task to hearts worn out

by syllogismos



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/pseuds/syllogismos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought you were denying me," Jim says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sore task to hearts worn out

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of important notes:
> 
> (1) Please, please heed the tags on this one and take note of the choice not to warn with any of the archive warnings. (Just in case: this does _not_ mean no such warnings could be applied.)
> 
> (2) This has no plot and no thematic or emotional resolution. I'm not kidding! The only resolution you can hope to find here is that everybody comes - more than once, even! \o?
> 
> A bit of explanation: this pornlette has been biding its time in my WIP folder for literally _years_ , waiting for a story to grow around it. I realized recently that I don't think it's ever going to find its story. Parts of what were going to be pieces of its story have become other things, and I've also since written [a somewhat gentler post-movie Peter/Jim](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2128509) that I, at least, am fairly happy with. I still like bits of this; some of it feels like it could have been, with the right set-up, but again, let me be 110% clear on this point - you won't find that set-up here! This is straight-up porn, BYO plot ;)
> 
> Thanks to [masked-alias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_n_loaded/pseuds/masked-alias) for beta, though fault for all remaining errors/issues is entirely my own.

Jim pushes Peter back against the door of the trailer as soon as they’re inside, and it makes the whole trailer lurch. Peter can see it, in his mind’s eye, what it must look like from the outside to anyone (children, other teachers) that might be looking over. Jim compensates for the weakness in one arm easily; he’s had time to adjust, to retrain his reflexes into favouring his good side. He works at Peter’s fly with both hands and then whips him around, pressing Peter’s face into the door and yanking his trousers and pants down below his knees. While pressing his still clothed but obviously very hard cock against Peter’s arse, Jim hooks his chin over Peter’s shoulder and growls into his ear, “You only want me because you wanted Bill.”

The laugh that comes from Peter is a choking thing, sharp and undisguised. “You only want _me_ because _Bill_ wanted me,” he retorts.

“It made me mad with jealousy sometimes.” Jim edges a hand roughly between Peter’s arse cheeks and searches with his first two fingers until he finds Peter’s pucker, clenched tight and unyielding. “I fantasised about ruining your clothes. I wanted to come all over you, all over your goddamned suits. I wanted to tie you up with one of your silk fucking ties and make you beg.” Jim draws his thumbnail over Peter’s pucker; barely there, at first, just an itching feathery touch, and then harder and sharper, provoking a flinch and a pained grunt from Peter. Jim does it again.

“Stop,” Peter whispers.

Jim sinks to his knees behind Peter and removes one of Peter’s shoes so that he can pull one leg out of his trousers and shoulder it aside. Peter can suddenly smell the wetness of the rain-dampened ground outside; it cuts through the smells of Jim’s trailer (stale coffee, cooking grease, sweat) and distracts him, for a moment, from what Jim is doing behind him. He’s just begun to register Jim’s hands on his arse, spreading his cheeks apart when he feels the first pass of Jim’s tongue over his hole, and he bucks. Jim isn’t tentative at all, and he’s unfazed by Peter’s reaction. He presses Peter forward again against the door, nudges his feet farther apart, and applies his whole mouth to Peter’s arsehole, licking and sucking and nibbling and not letting up for even an instant even as Peter squirms and pants noisily above him.

When Jim finally lets up and restores himself to his feet, Peter is paralysed by the cold sensation of evaporating saliva. He keeps his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against the door. Jim has stepped away, and what follows is a jumble of domestic sounds as Peter breathes deeply, smelling his own pungent arousal, and tries to calm his racing heartbeat. There’s the sound of shoes being toed off, the sound of a cupboard banging shut, the sound of rustling, a zip being undone and the rustling of clothes, then the _pop_ of an uncapping.

Just as suddenly as he’d removed himself, Jim is back. The wet head of his prick is the first thing to touch Peter, smearing against his hip. Jim pushes two fingers slippery with petroleum jelly into Peter’s hole, and the oily smell pushes too, pushes even the odour of sex far, far away. Jim’s fingers aren’t quite rough, but they’re insistent. Jim twists them back and forth and pulls out and pushes in, and spreads them open to stretch, and it’s only when Peter shifts minutely to relieve a cramp in his hip flexor that one of Jim’s fingertips bumps into his prostate and Peter’s arousal ratchets up another notch. He clenches hard around Jim’s fingers and suppresses a grunt. Jim pulls his fingers out despite the tightness, and the scent of petroleum is renewed as he spreads a generous amount over his prick.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Jim bites out as he lifts one of Peter’s knees into the crook of his good arm and spreads him wide open. Peter scrabbles for a handhold and ends up clinging to some shelving to the right of the door with one hand, his other palm flattened against the door to brace himself. The edge of the shelf digs into his hand as Jim pushes his cock in and in, stretching and pushing until his hips are flush with Peter’s arse and he’s gasping into Peter’s skin, his head bowed so that his forehead is resting at the base of Peter’s neck.

It’s not comfortable, and it’s not pleasurable, but at the same time for Peter it’s a relief. It’s an itch scratched and a question answered, and he draws in a steadying breath and pushes his hips back slightly. And Jim had never stopped moving, but what was just the flex and release of his hips against Peter’s arse turns into longer strokes, pulling out and snapping his hips on the push back in. Peter can’t think about anything else; his entire focus has narrowed to his arsehole and the cock pistoning in and out of it. He hears only the slap of skin on skin and harsh breathing (his own and Jim’s) and, occasionally, noises (grunts and groans) from Jim’s mouth.

When Jim pulls up too hard on Peter’s leg, hooked over Jim’s arm, Peter can’t suppress a wince. “Sorry,” Jim whispers as he tightens his bad arm around Peter’s waist and pushes in as far as he can. He repeats the action deliberately, and then he bites down on Peter’s shoulder as he shudders through his orgasm, his hips moving erratically and uncontrollably.

As soon as the aftershocks have passed, Jim releases Peter’s leg and tries to soothe, slipping his hand over Peter’s hip, on the outside and then on the inside. From Peter’s inner thigh, Jim’s hand travels smoothly up to his cock, which is just barely half-hard after the shock and burn of penetration. As soon as Jim’s fingers make to draw back Peter’s foreskin and play with the head of his cock, Peter stirs himself to action, pushing Jim’s hand away and struggling to get away himself, but the sudden shock of Jim’s softening cock leaving his arse causes him to stumble. He would have fallen to his knees were it not for Jim’s shockingly quick reflexes. Jim manhandles him to the bed, and Peter curls up on his side, facing the wall. Jim hovers for a minute, a hand resting on Peter’s back, but then he steps away. The faucet comes on and goes off, and Jim returns with a glass of water that he sets on the bedside table.

There’s no box spring, and the mattress is thin and hard, so it doesn’t dip when Jim climbs onto the bed with Peter. Jim tugs on Peter’s shoulder to roll him onto his back, and then he forces Peter’s knees apart and shoulders between them. His mouth around Peter’s prick is wet and soft, and he sucks gently and slowly. Peter’s breath comes in hiccoughed starts and stops that only eventually even out into something steadier. When Peter’s breathing picks up again and Jim can taste him leaking, he redoubles his efforts, sucking harder and tighter until suddenly Peter’s hands are pushing his head away.

“I can’t,” Peter gasps, kicking his heels in a failed attempt to get leverage and push himself back on the bed. It doesn’t work, but it also doesn’t matter, since there’s only about six inches of free space behind him.

Jim looks at Peter, taking in his flush, his angry red and leaking cock, and his hands clenched in the sheets. He moves up the bed to stretch out beside Peter, not touching. When Peter begins to relax, his hands letting up their grip on the sheets, Jim props himself up on one elbow and leans over, lips parted.

“No, don’t–” Peter stops him, turning his head to the side.

Jim nuzzles at what’s in range now—Peter’s jaw—and Peter melts a bit, humming breathily and then muttering something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I don’t love you,” Peter intones.

Jim doesn’t laugh or chuckle; he grabs ahold of Peter’s jaw and forces Peter to look him in the eye. “Actually, I’m quite sure you do.” He leans over and plants two kisses to each side of Peter’s mouth, darting his tongue out to prod at the corners.

“You won’t love for me for very long, but you do love me. As much as you hate me.” Peter’s throat makes a clicking sound as he swallows; he doesn’t answer.

After a moment, Jim slides back down the bed and resettles himself between Peter’s thighs, one finger trailing randomly through Peter’s pubic hair.

“I don’t know if I can…”

“Try not to think about it,” Jim advises, drawing a line up Peter’s cock with the flat of his thumbnail. Peter’s cock twitches, and he groans. When Jim looks up, Peter doesn’t see him because his eyelids are sliding down, his long lashes coming to rest delicately on the thin and slightly bruise-coloured skin under his eyes. His chest rises and falls.

Jim starts at his balls, just breathing on them until Peter twitches his hips impatiently. Then he applies his tongue and his lips, moving from Peter’s balls to the base of his cock after another hip jerk. When he moves to take Peter’s cock fully back into his mouth, he folds up two of his fingers and presses the knuckles to Peter’s perineum, massaging in small circles. Peter’s hips jerk up again, and Jim slides his free hand to the small of Peter’s back to encourage more of the same, holding his mouth mostly still but his lips as tight as he can manage around Peter’s cock. Peter eventually finds a rhythm, fucking up into Jim’s mouth with short strokes, at first clenching his hands into the sheets but then moving them to Jim’s shoulder and head, holding and perceiving the difference between Jim’s receding hairline and Richard’s. And that thought is a stab of guilt in his gut, a stab that twists into unexpected pleasure as he suddenly comes, pushing up into Jim’s mouth and pressing the tips of his fingers into Jim’s scalp. Jim swallows and doesn’t pull off Peter’s prick until he’s started to soften. Peter keeps his eyes closed when he feels Jim shifting up on the bed to lay next to him, but Jim only wrestles the sheet up over them and throws an arm over Peter’s torso before burrowing into a pillow and, presumably, falling asleep. But Peter, he lies awake for what feels like hours, assaulted over and over by flashbacks of a hot prick pushing inexorably into his arse and a shelf digging into his hand and his legs collapsing out from underneath him.

* * *

When Peter wakes, he tries to will himself _not_ to wake up, but it doesn’t work because being awake enough to marshall that kind of mental strength is, well, being _awake_. It’s a done thing. But being awake does _not_ mean that Peter has to get out of bed, and so he doesn’t. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

Jim is out of bed. This fact Peter registers not by the lack of his form in the bed but by the smells and sounds assaulting his senses: frying sausages and coffee and cupboards being opened and closed and the hollow clink of cheap tin flatware. The sound of coffee being poured is what rouses him, eventually, and it’s partly because he wants the caffeine and partly because he doesn’t want Jim to call for him or come and try to wake him. He doesn’t want to do anything because Jim asks him to or wants him to. He lost something in their lovemaking—if you’d even call it that—the day before, something with regard to his autonomy and self-definition and agency. It might be that what he’s lost is the comfort of wanting to want the things that he wants. He wants Jim (and wanted him, before, wanted him even just how he got him: not kindly, not nicely, but _savagely_ )—that must be admitted. But he doesn’t (and didn’t) _want_ to want Jim, and that’s the rub.

Moving to get out of bed once he’s made the decision to do so is unexpectedly painful because he’s _sore_ , sore in his arse and in the muscles in his thighs and lower back that he never knew existed. He appropriates some of Jim’s clothes that may or may not have been left out for him. They smell clean (although still of Jim), but they were on the floor in a pile, not laid out neatly folded.

Peter takes a mug from Jim wordlessly. He sips and grimaces. “This is foul.” He raises the mug for another sip.

Jim shrugs. “I’ve tea if you’d rather.”

Peter ignores him and sits down at the tiny table, steeling himself in advance to avoid wincing when his arse makes contact with the hard surface.

Jim sets his own mug down on the table, lingering a moment longer than necessary, a shadow in the corner of Peter’s eye. Peter stares out the window and takes tiny sips of coffee, pretending he doesn’t feel Jim’s eyes on him.

Jim leaves and returns with plates of sausage links and eggs.

They eat in silence, and Peter gets up first to take their empty plates to the sink and refill his mug with more of Jim’s thin and bitter brew. He stands at the sink and studies the rainbows reflected in the leftover grease on their plates as he tries to drink without tasting. He hears Jim’s footfalls, but he’s still not expecting a gentle hand sliding around his waist and a warm, steady presence at his back. The rest follows because Peter is desperate for the comfort and is helpless against the compulsion to take it when it’s so close and so possible: he turns, abruptly, and kisses Jim, fumbling his half-full mug into the sink with a clatter and circling his arms around Jim’s waist to keep him in place.

Peter’s eyes are closed; he wants to _feel_ Jim, and taste him, and follow the hard line of Jim’s teeth with his tongue. He’s trying to mitigate the way that all the pieces of himself seem to be a little fragmented this morning, hanging together only through the presence of his desires (for Jim, physically; for a reprieve from his loneliness; for closure)—desires stringing through his veins like the twine that holds a marionette together. Jim accepts his kiss and helps by bringing his free hand to Peter’s jaw, and when Peter breaks away for a breath, that hand on his jaw keeps Peter close.

“I thought you were denying me,” Jim says, and he presses a kiss over the delicate skin of Peter’s eyelid.

Peter shivers and tightens the circle of his arms around Jim’s middle, bringing their bodies flush together. He searches blindly for Jim’s mouth and doesn’t protest when Jim’s hand on his jaw grips more tightly and Jim takes over control of the kiss. He’s tired of fighting what he wants—Jim—of not wanting to want what he wants, so he gives in, letting a broken moan escape his throat when Jim gently bites down on his lower lip. He shifts his hands to Jim’s arse, pulling their groins together.

This time it _is_ making love, undeniably. They pull each other out of their clothes and end up back on the bed, and then all sense of urgency is lost. Peter’s on top of Jim with one leg between Jim’s thighs, and their cocks are nestled together, rubbing deliciously but not with much intent.

Peter has Jim’s head in his hands, his thumbs pressing hard in front of Jim’s ears, keeping him in place. Jim can’t be _that_ comfortable, because Peter’s elbows are digging into the tops of his shoulders, and Peter knows that he’s gripping Jim’s skull _too hard_ , but the sounds that Peter is eating out of Jim’s mouth are _good_ : unstudied grunts and honest moans that vibrate up into Peter’s chest. Peter rolls his hips a little and has to pull away from Jim’s mouth to breathe because the slide of his erection against Jim’s is just too much. Jim’s hips curl up too, trapping a perfect moment of slippery cock heads catching and pressing and sliding.

“Oh _God_ ,” Peter pants, and Jim doesn’t smirk. He’s slack-jawed himself and breathing hard. His eyes are dark and liquid and open, and after a moment he’s craning his neck up to catch Peter’s lips again. Peter doesn’t need to be convinced, not really. He kisses Jim until his mouth is sore and then _keeps_ kissing him.

Jim gets impatient first. His hands drift from Peter’s shoulders down to his lower back and then to his arse, where Jim grabs and holds, drawing one leg up to give himself leverage to thrust up against Peter. Peter pushes up onto his elbows, thwarting Jim’s efforts, teasing. And he ducks his head to look down their bodies. It’s magnificent, seeing Jim’s hips straining up towards his, their cocks just brushing when Jim gets it right. Peter rolls a little to the side, still propped up on one elbow, and he reaches down with his free hand to press and hold their cocks together. Jim groans and pulls Peter’s face into his neck; he resumes his quick upward jabs, fucking up into the circle of Peter’s fingers and rubbing the head of his cock repeatedly over the sensitive nerves on the underside of the head of Peter’s, whether by accident or by design.

It’s by accident, Peter decides, feeling the angle of Jim’s head tipped back. Jim can’t see what he’s doing, and his pulsing moans are uncensored. He’s lost to pleasure. Peter’s not lost—too busy observing—but he doesn’t mind. It feels like a new thing, to be _in_ sex but not a _captive_ of it. Peter squeezes his fingers a little tighter at the apex of Jim’s next upstroke, and Jim gasps, “Fuck.”

It’s power of an entirely non-malicious sort, having Jim at his mercy like this, and it bubbles under Peter’s skin, tingles and makes him feel dizzy. He bends his head to suck at the stubble under Jim’s jaw, and Jim rolls into him a little more and picks up the pace of his thrusts, and without much warning Peter’s orgasm is on him: he shudders and muffles his open mouth on Jim’s skin, stubble pricking the tender insides of his lips. Even while the aftershocks are still pulsing through him, he collapses to the side to give himself room to jerk Jim with faster, tighter strokes until Jim is coming too, almost kneeing Peter in the thigh as his heels kick for leverage, pushing his hips up hard as his cock spurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Title once again from Tennyson's "The Lotos-Eaters." Because why break from tradition?
>
>> There _is_ confusion worse than death,  
>  Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,  
> Long labor unto aged breath,  
> Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars  
> And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.  
> 


End file.
